


The End of Days

by hella_fandom



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Derek is a dick, F/M, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Stiles is a cinnamon roll, Torture, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 07:15:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9112279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hella_fandom/pseuds/hella_fandom
Summary: Stiles Stilinski was so excited for his sophomore year at Beacon Hills High School he could hardly wait to walk through the front doors alongside his lifelong friend, Scott Mccall. Destiny has different plans for him. Thrown into a new hellish world run by the risen dead, Stiles must sacrifice and endure as long as he can with the help of Derek Hale. Despite the two immediately despising each other, a lot can happen in one mission to safety.





	

Stiles felt as if his lungs would combust at any moment, the back of his throat parched for anything other than the saliva he was forcing himself to swallow because it honestly felt as if his throat would tear if he didn't. Despite the searing agony that spread through his lanky legs like wildfire, the teen forced his trembling legs to keep up at the murderous pace in a full-on sprint. Only his raucous panting filled his ears, the sound thankfully louder to him than the carnal screams from behind him. Stiles didn’t even want to think about what unfortunate soul was caught by the relentless abominations that now ruled their world in search for their exclusive diet; living flesh.

The dense forest around him blurred by panicked, hazel eyes, the burning sun slipping through the dying branches signaling that it was mid fall in the state of California. Yet the scorching sun begged to differ. The branches did little to shade the teen from the harsh heat as sweat dampened the back of Stiles’s ragged red hoodie but he refused to shed the last bit of the past he had left, the faint scent home clinging stubbornly to the fabric and serving as a constant reminder that life wasn’t always like this. The once sarcastic, witty, and generally light-hearted teen was now replaced with a dissociated shell resembling his former self, his adolescent features hardened despite his slender build. And his mind now tainted with the harsh reality of this new hell on Earth.

Pulling himself out of wandering thoughts, Stiles clenched his clammy hand firmly around the heavy semi-automatic pistol that held his remaining five bullets. His finger twitched against the cool metal of the trigger, the brunette fully prepared with the intent to kill the once human carcasses that had risen less than six weeks ago.

Once Stiles deemed the path in front of him level enough for his lanky legs not to trip over the landscape of rocks, littered leaves, and dried grass, the teen guaranteed himself a few moments of safety and glanced over his shoulder. As he did so, the dirtied juvenile stumbled yet still remained balanced enough to not fall face first into the crisp leaves that littered the ground, crunching underneath the teen’s hefty combat boots, the sound acting like a beacon for every infected within at least a mile.

And in that moment, the brunette silently prayed to every god or higher being he knew, hoping that only the three Necrotics following him weren’t within hearing distance. His group was probably fighting off the other two seeing as he could only hear three different animalistic voices. Thankfully, Stiles couldn’t see the infected but their rambunctious pursuit could still reach his ears. The inhuman snarls were harrowing, Stiles’s ears unclogging so he could clearly hear them now instead of an echoing lump of growls. Now, with the full force of the barbaric snarls able to register through the teen’s mind, the male was sure nightmares would plague him for weeks to come. Probably the worst part thought wasn’t the promise of nightmares, but that fact that Stiles could actually differentiate the different groans from one another and link them to a once human person. One male, one female. The last one sounded much younger, the hairs on the teen’s neck standing at attention when he realized it was a child’s voice. He couldn’t exactly tell how old or the gender, but if he had to guess, no more than ten. Guilt settled uneasily in the bottom of Stiles’s stomach like a brick weighing him down. Of course, he hadn’t caused this family harm, but the mere thought of either the virus or death itself taking over these people made the teen even more so on edge.

Resuming his gaze forward, Stiles pushed his over exhausted body to the max, needing to put as much distance as possible between him and the Necrotics despite his over worked muscles tingling and going numb beneath him. A foreign taste invaded the teen’s taste buds, the intense exercise increasing pressure on his lungs that caused blood cells to leak into his air sacs, leaving a metallic flavor on his tongue. He only knew this thanks to Mr.Harris who had woken Stiles up just in time to hear his lecture about why people tasted blood when they ran for a long period of time. And for that, the teen was grateful for knowing the cause instead of panicking about something so trivial in this hell on earth. His group of survivors had probably already fallen prey to the Necrotics, either having taken the easy way out or destined to roam the Earth along with the creatures they once feared.

Stiles hated to think that there were helpless people trapped in their own decaying bodies, forced to observe what their once peaceful world had become through the eyes of a ravenous beast, their movements not their own as they ripped apart their own kind and gorged on their flesh. Just the thought of it had shivers running down the teen’s sweat-slicked back, even able to get a good thought of what it tasted like to them of their conscious was actually trapped. The taste of bitter blood and chewy skin was probably repulsive to say the least, crunching on the juicy organs and insides the Necrotics seemed so keen on getting to, the flesh sticking in their teeth as a permanent reminder of their sins.

After another exhausting ten minutes of uninterrupted sprinting, Stiles was broken out of his pessimistic thoughts, his entire body coming to an abrupt halt no more than five feet from the cliff’s edge, water roaring about forty feet below. Heavy boots buried into the dried dirt, the teen taking in a deep inhale of fresh forest air before spinning around, ready to resume his escape in a different direction. But those thought were short-lived when hazel eyes met three separate pairs on lifeless ones, Stiles felt bile rise in the back of his throat at the repugnant appearance of the infected. Despite having run into their kind before, it seemed as if the teen could never get over what it was like to observe such atrocities.

Festering maggots had begun swarming across the exposed, rotting flesh of the three beings. And judging by the vast amount of wriggling insects buried deep within the flayed skin, this once ordinary family had been tainted by the virus from the very start. The child caught Stiles’s eyes first, appeared to have once been female with the ragged pink neon shirt and a just as bright skirt ripped and barely hanging onto its body, exposing a gaping wound in it’s stomach the maggots seemed to savor.

The parents didn’t seem to be in any better condition than the child was, appearing to have been in a fatal car accident probably when the apocalypse began. The woman’s head was half caved in to expose the murky grey brains that were still intact, keeping its host alive. The father was the absolute worst of the three, one it’s arms severed at the shoulder, exposing raw nerves and bone. If that didn’t make Stiles dry heave, the breached rib-cage that exposed rotting organs that had long since abandoned their duties definitely did.

As soon as the brute of what once was a man took a long stride forward, gnashing its decaying teeth, the teen’s legs trembled in pure panic, the woman rushing forward with an ear-shattering scream that ceased Stiles’s never ending train of thought.

He jumped.

It seemed to take only a few moments before Stiles felt the aggressive violation of frigid water biting into his skin, instantly dampening his clothes that quickly became dead weight within moments, trying to pull the teen deeper into the black abyss of the ocean. Still refusing to rid himself of his jacket, Stiles pumped his sore legs, determined not to give in. Not now after all the shit he had been through to get to this moment. Not when he still had to find his best friend in this pure madness that had taken over their world.

Once he breached the surface of the unforgiving ocean, the teen instantly began filling his heaving lungs with large, strangled gasps of air. He had survived by pure luck, the jagged rocks connected to the cliff were mere feet away from his shivering body. After giving a silent thanks whatever higher power or even just himself for launching himself as far as he did, Stiles began paddling away from the infected who snarled above him on the ledge, not taking the leap for some unknown reason Stiles didn’t really give a fuck about at the moment.

The thoroughly soaked brunette had lost track of time as he swam, keeping the land on his right side so he could return when the coast was clear of Necrotics. However, it seemed as if the beaches being so popular when humans were at the top of the food chain seemed to bite Stiles in the ass, the infected roaming endlessly across the shore among the bodies and beach equipment.

It felt like the teen had been wading through the chilling water for hours, goosebumps prickling over the exposed freckled skin. Thankfully, the sun had somewhat helped Stiles from succumbing to hypothermia, but in return giving the teen the worst sunburn of his life. Now, instead of his legs pained from the exercise, now his arms shared the same fate, the stretch of muscles resulting in more heavy pants to pass through Stiles’s slightly parted lips. It had only taken another twenty minutes of the torture before darkness began invading his vision, his body slowly down from pure exhaustion that coursed through his system like an agonizing poison.

The brunette could not form a coherent thought to remind himself who he was doing this for. Who had died while he had lived to suffer in the new world. Before Stiles’s body shut down, he trudged himself towards the end of the beach surrounded by rocks, his vision fading right as he curled himself in between the tight space, the darkness enveloping him whole. 

Six weeks prior, Stiles leaned forward in the cramped squad car, his father beside him giving a sound of discontent which the teen ignored, fiddling with the dials before a lively guitar drummed through the speakers, playing a song the teen didn’t know. The deep frown on his father’s face was replaced with a toothy grin, a gruff voice singing along with the man’s voice that bellowed through the car. Stiles felt a similar smile tug at his lips, not wanting to change the station despite not knowing the words. Seeing his father like this; relaxed in spite of his treacherous work hours that left dark circles under his light blue eyes that were hardened from years of being an officer and several more being the Sheriff. In that moment, Stiles briefly hoped that the two could stay in this moment forever, his father banging his head in sync with calloused hands drumming against the steering wheel, his face bright and fearless.

That smile was the last that Stiles would ever see from his father, the car skidding and sliding to the right harshly, the metal barrier snapping and allowing the car to fall sixty feet down the steep hill. A strong hand reached out across Stiles’s chest as the airbag went off, knocking the teen unconscious.

The squad car lay overturned at the beginning of the woods, a thick trail of smoke slipping from the hood and into the cool fall air. The Necrotic that had been crossing across the highway glanced over his shoulder at the hunk of the twisted, dented metal that had once been a car before continuing its shuffle across the highway.

When Stiles regained consciousness, it was to a splitting headache, the faint scent of car fumes filling his nose. Hazel eyes pried themselves open much to the discontent of their bearer. The glass from the windshield had smashed, littering the two males with razor-sharp pieces, some already embedded in the teen’s arm where he had shielded his face. His body ached as if he had been working out for hours, his neck throbbing from the whiplash he had endured whilst the car rolled and eventually landing on it’s back.

“Dad?... Shit.” Stiles groaned and reached for his seat belt with bloodstained hands that trembled from the aftershock that wracked through his body. Once the click sounded in his ears, the teen fell from his seat and onto the roof of the car, only adding to his growing headache while his stomach threatened to show him what he had for breakfast. Once he was stable enough to not puke all over himself and see clearly without his vision blurry and shaking, Stiles glanced over at his father and immediately covered his mouth, his entire body freezing in place, the teen sure his mind had stopped along with his physical form. 

Wheezed pants left his father’s lips, his body seeming so small and frail with the large piece of glass sticking out of his chest, blood soaking his Sheriff's uniform, tainting with the heavy iron scent of blood. His chest rose and fell at a slow pace, indicating he was no longer in pain. Barely clinging to life by a thread.

It felt like a dream to Stiles, those once bright blue eyes glossing over, moving from the burning sun that peeked through the broken windshield to his trembling son, those eyes that reminded him so much his departed wife. Tears rolled freely down his baby’s cheeks, running over each mole and each freckle that seemed meticulously placed by god himself. With the last reserve of John’s fading strength, he lifted his hand and brushed it against Stiles’s warm cheek, covering the freckles and tears with his own blood.

“Dad?....” The words were spoken in a broken whisper, the teen feeling as if this wasn’t real, like he was witnessing the scene from afar. Watching the tears stream down his own cheeks, the hand print of blood soaking into the skin of his cheek. Serving as a permanent reminder of what he lost that day. Stiles tried again to get his dad to answer, to reassure him that everything was going to be okay. That they were going to pull through this together and have more car rides filled with booming music until the two felt as if they would be deaf for life. That he would see his father’s warm smile again as he banged his head to the drums of the song that Stiles didn’t even care to know as long as his dad was happy, reminiscing back to the days when mom was around, the songs being a personal reminder to his father, and an unknown connection to his son.

But instead, the teen remained wide eyed as his father’s own blue eyes faded to a murky ocean color, like an oil spill tainted the once beautiful orbs. The teen’s reflection remained in those eyes, able to see everything, the bloody hand print on his cheek, his red, swollen eyes, his bright pink cheeks, the trail of tears continuing to fall freely down his cheeks and leaving small, damp drops on his red hoodie. He didn’t even get to say goodbye to the one person he couldn’t even imagine losing, his mind reaching into his memories, remembering pulling all nighters at the police station waiting for his father to finish a case.

Even when he had school the next day. Even if it meant sleeping in the hard, plastic chairs that gave Stiles back pain for days following. In his mind, his father was invincible, surviving deadly gunfights and emerging unscathed, saving those who couldn’t save themselves and giving them a second chance at life, and even balancing taking care of his son by himself. Yet here he was, the blood of his hero drying on his cheek.

The next minute or two went past in a blur, Stiles gripping his phone with one hand and kicking the car door to pry it open, speaking in rushed sentences to the officer on the other line. He didn’t care that they were telling him to calm down. He wouldn’t calm down. Now as long as he was next to his father’s corpse. Lanky legs slammed against the car door this time with all his might and it swung open, the metal creaking so loud it drowned out the teen’s sobs but only for a moment, the sound of his own weakness hitting Stiles like a semi truck.

Despite his muscles screaming at him to not move so fast, the teen crawled through the opening, bloody hands planting themselves into the warm earth, the grass beneath his fingers now tinted a dark red.

Stiles interrupted the female voice on the other end, stuttering out the location of the highway and far they were from the nearest exit. The teen was almost panicked enough to ignore the sudden scream on the other end. It wasn’t like anything the brunette had ever heard, the ear-splitting screech vibrating in the teen’s skull and causing him to shiver at the tone of her voice. But it was the next sound that made Stiles pause. A sickening chorus of squelching and crunching, as if the woman on the other end was being eaten alive.  

Pausing his ragged breathing for a few moments to press his ear tightly against the phone as to any indication of why she screamed, an inhuman snarl broke through the officer’s cry for help, followed by a kind of ripping like paper but much more thicker.

The fear that clouded Stiles’s mind abruptly shifted into confusion before the line on the other end cut, the horrid sound still ringing in the teen’s ears. Once again, after dialing the three digit number, Stiles was greeted with the same dial tone. Was the phone tower down? Or something.. Worse?... Quickly shaking his head, the brunette argued to himself silently that there had to be a logical explanation to all of this.

The sudden car crash, the police being unreachable. There had to be a reason. Stiles just wished he hadn’t asked so soon.

The Necrotic that emerged through the forest appeared to be human at first, a young woman no older than Stiles with sweatpants and a tank top, her body shuffling over yet remaining wordless. She seemed so human with that blank look on her face, as if she were only dazed and confused, not the monster she would become.

“Are you okay?” Stiles questioned, pulling himself up and taking a step towards the stranger. “It’s okay. Do you have a car near here? I was just in a car crash. Can you tell me your name?” With every word, Stiles took a few steps forward until he was a few feet away from the woman, tilting his head when she only tripped and fell on her face in response.

Hazel eyes grew to the size of saucers when he saw her back, ripped to shreds with what seemed to me pure teeth and blunt nails, blood no longer flowing but coating her back like a jacket of death. Now Stiles was sure that there was something horrifically wrong that could not be explained with science as soon as the woman glanced up and growled, the sound representing nothing human and all pure animal. Her eyes that were once glossed in a daze were now wild with instinct to find prey and eat. Her body contorted as she attempted to pull herself up as quick as possible, her bones snapping and splintering with the sheer force of what the monster inside of her could now do.

Stiles allowed himself to be paralyzed with fear for a few more moments before shaking his head and scrambling backwards, clambering into the car on trembling hands and knees, reaching for his father’s belt, hurriedly unfastening the gun holster whilst his chest heaved with such force the teen was sure his ribs would crack. Every second counted now, the gun finally slipping free of its cage and making it’s way into uncertain lanky hands that trembled around the trigger.

The snarling from behind Stiles indicated the abomination had finally made it’s way to it’s twisted legs, virtually showing no pain but instead insatiable hunger that could never be satisfied. The being jerked forward into a sprint, opening it’s mouth to gnash its teeth, most of them shattering on impact and falling out of her mouth like crumbs, falling at her twisted ankles that could barely support her body. 

Bright eyes squeezed shut as Stiles clenched the trigger with both fingers, blindly firing at the creature that vaulted towards him, the sound of its body dropping immediately following after.

It took thirty seconds for Stiles to finally gain enough courage to flutter his eyes open and gaze upon the twitching being, whining as almost dog like noises escaped her open mouth, broken teeth and blood sliding down her throat. She was no more than two feet from the car on her stomach, her head tilted up to meet tear-filled hazel eyes that belonged to a frightened teen who had just killed his first Necrotic and far from the last.

With fingers still clenching around the service pistol, The brunette thankfully retreated into his thoughts, remembering the time when he was seven years old and had been playing in the front yard while his father and mother chatted mindlessly on the porch, smiling and laughing like they had all the time in the world to waste.

At that time, Stiles was a much brighter child and smiled much more than he ever did growing up once his mother passed on. There he was, plopped in front of a small anthill, small, chestnut eyes watching in awe while the insects worked together to carry the potato chip Stiles left about a foot away.

The chubby, bright eyed child moved his hand down next to one of the stray ants, those tiny legs making their way across his warm flesh before pausing. Still curious, Stiles leaned down to get a better look before tiny, razor sharp teeth embedded themselves in the kid’s plump hand.

His parents rushed to his side in mere moments but it was already too late, tears flowing freely down Stiles’s rounded cheeks, sniffling while cradling his hand to his chest, wide eyes observing the ant that now lay on it’s back with its lower body squished, legs flailing in the air for only a few more moments before going still. Uncaring of his father who swiftly lifted his body, the child only wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve, gazing at his plump finger that held a small drop of the insect’s orange blood.

He remembered spending the next three days crying not because he was bit like his parents thought, but because his had killed that ant with his own hand. Had observed the life leave that small fragile body with understanding eyes.

It was the first living creature Stiles had ended, robbing everything that ant was and could have been. Despite having such a meager existence that consisted of rushing from one place to the next to acquire the small bits of food and back to the queen before repeating the process until the day it would die, the concoction of guilt was insurmountable to the six year old boy.

The same remorse settled uneasily in Stiles’s stomach, those same hazel eyes blurring his vision with salty tears. By now, the woman had stopped twitching, the hole in her forehead seemed so massive compared to her kind face, those jade eyes staring down the teen as if he had a choice in that moment. The beauty of this stranger seemed to linger on her frame like a suffocating perfume, unmistakable from even a football field away.

This time, it wasn’t an ant laying at Stiles’s feet now, but a human who had life, whose path had most likely crossed with the teen’s in the small town of Beacon Hills. Did she have a family? Were they looking for her?...

Gripping his chest with a clammy hand, Stiles gagged, falling to his knees in the dirt before heaving over and emptying the contents of his stomach which consisted of oatmeal and cold pizza from the night before. Shudders wracked the teen’s frail body as he scooted away from the puke resting in the grass next to the body. There was no way this was real. It must have been a dream. Maybe he fell asleep in the car and imagined all this. Which meant all he had to do was make sure. In dreams you had extra fingers. So all he had to do was count past ten.

Quivering hands uncurled, moving in front of Stiles’s face as if it would be easier to count without seeing the body in his peripheral vision, those cold eyes bearing into his own as if judging the teen for what he had done. They seemed so human now that what monster had previously clouded the deep blue with more feral, animalistic hunger.

With insurmountable effort, Stiles pulled his eyes from lifeless ones, instead focusing on his quaking hands with a skeptical gaze, each finger uncurling like a ticking time bomb.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Frightened gasps for breath now left Stiles’s lips in a hurry, his chest rising and falling at an almost inhuman pace, his eyes now filling with tears before he finished uncurling each blood-soaked finger.

Six.

A simple task such as this left Stiles exhausted, his knees ready to give out under him if there were only ten fingers.

Seven.

That would mean that this was all real. The cold body less than three feet away, his hero whose body dangled from his seat, those powerful arms that used to lift Stiles as if he weighed nothing. Facing the fact that this was all real would break the teen. What would he do? Follow the highway back to the police station? And then what? Tell them that the Sheriff was dead? That he had escaped and shot a woman minutes later?

Eight.

Stiles’s heartbeat rose faster than he thought was possible, the melodic drumming barely keeping the teen sane.

Nine.

The tears that brimmed red, puffy hazel eyes now fell freely down his cheeks, following the trails that hadn’t dried in the minutes that his father had been dead. Despite emptying his stomach of all of its contents, Stiles still felt stomach acid rise in his throat, the rough burn bringing the teen to uncurl all of his fingers at once, desperately hoping there would be an extra. That he would wake beside his father and once again see that sheepish, contagious grin that simply just radiated safety and warmth.

Ten.

Only ten. No more, no less. This was real. This was real. The death of his mother didn’t even compare to the sickness welling in Stiles’s stomach, a lonely sob escaping through his violently shaking fingers that had moved to cover his trembling lips, his entire body wracking with frantic sobs and whines, wanting nothing more than to wake from this nightmare.

No such wishes were granted. Stiles eventually pulled himself on wobbling legs, the acidic taste of puke lingering on his tongue. He didn’t even give a last glance at either body before stumbling deeper into the woods, each move sending jolts of discomfort through his sore limbs, the glass embedded in his skin only dug deeper into his flesh with each step, Stiles’s head so numb he didn’t even register the pain, only the uncomfortable stretch of his legs. The surprisingly comfortable weight of the gun rested in his hoodie pocket, the weight much more unbarring and potent than before he ended a life with it.

Whether it was seconds, minutes, or even hours, Stiles didn’t even register time itself as he approached a main street, his shoes caked with a mixture of both dirt and blood, the teen uncaring as to who it belonged to.

Did it really matter? Three innocent lives had passed before those now glassy, hazel eyes. In the back of the teen’s mind, a small voice whispered that it wouldn’t be the last. There was something horribly wrong in Beacon Hills, the once busy streets filled with warmth, the soft glow of safety was snuffed, instead leaving behind an unmistakable impurity that clung to the air like a dense fog.

Lifting his head to scan the area for any sort of life that would assure that the world was in fact, not ending. The assurance never came, the expanse of his vision catching no signs of life despite being exposed to this town ever since he was born. Stiles grew up on these streets, had played in the park to his left with his mother while his father worked hard to protect this town. He had seen the brightness in his mother’s eyes slightly diminish slowly but surely day by day. 

Frontotemporal dementia the doctor had said, the seven year old boy understanding little of what the man was saying, something about progressive degeneration of the temporal and frontal lobes of the brain. At the time, Stiles didn’t understand half of those words yet when he glanced over at his father in the waiting room, his once firm and unwavering hands now resting on his bowed head, the boy knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

The visits to the park became too few and too far apart, the brunette instead spending his time home with his sick mother while his father busied himself with work, focused on drowning himself in paperwork rather than watching his wife slowly lose herself until it was necessary for 24 hour care at the local hospital.

While he was home for expansive hours at a time, Stiles would bring his mother crackers and canned soup he would warm on the stove by himself, having learned to cook now that his mother no longer packed his lunch.

Despite not voicing his opinion, Stiles dearly missed the notes his mother would leave on the brown paper bag, ranging from “Have a wonderful day!” to “Your mommy loves you!” And everyday, right next to her positive note, his mother would draw a smiley face that a few of the kids made fun of for being a mommy’s boy.

Yet every time during lunch, Stiles would run his chubby fingers over the writing, a small smile tugging at his lips when he imagined his mother sitting alone at the kitchen table long before anyone woke, her beautiful lips curved upwards while her delicate fingers maneuvered the marker into a kind message to her son.

It took a total of three more steps before Stiles fell to his knees harshly, the glass disappearing beneath his pale skin. Now the pain was edging its way back into his consciousness, the hell he was in had now become pure agony and not even his thoughts could sedate the razor sharp torment. His own body disobeyed him, the shaking now uncontrollable as Stiles fell on his side, clutching his chest with a crushing grip, wanting nothing more than to give in to the pain and rest. He wanted to sleep until there was no more pain. No more of the aching misery that swirled in his stomach like a cocktail of raw emotion that he no longer had authority towards. For the first time today, Stiles had gotten what he wanted, oblivion consuming him whole and unforgiving; apathetic towards the fact that it was an innocent teenager.


End file.
